English chef wanted: No experience req.

The English eat food the way they make love.
With their hand.

The most popular food in Britain is the kebab.
After that, it's the burger.
After that, it's battered fish.
After that, it's chips.
When do you suppose they break out the knife and fork?
At home. Over fish fingers and potatoe smileys with ketchup?

How can a country so close to Culinary Empires such as France and Italy sustain itself with a national cuisine of such misery? Even if we pretend traditional Engilsh fare is eaten by anyone aside from tourists, we still have little more than steak and kidney pie, bangers and mash and toad-in-the-ole. Imagine taking a first date out to an english restaurant and trying to get lucky on a menu of sausage meat and boiled potato.

"Ooh fancy. They deep fried it an everyfink"

And it's not just the food in pubs that's just plain wrong. I checked the meat content on a bag of Marks & Spencer basic pork sausages this morning and found it's meat content was just below 47% pork.

That's not really a basic pork sausage is it.
Less than half pork.
That's like me claiming I'm a basic 12 foot man.

"How tall are you?"
"Bascially, I'm 12 foot tall. Some of it is me, 'bout 47%, and the rest is something else"

And it get's worse. Marks & Spencer are the fancy supermarket over here. I went to Sainsbury's and found the pork content of their Basic Pork Sausages was 32%. Less than a third!!
LESS.

At what point do we say, this is not meat.
1%?
Half a percent?
At what point does the label go from "Pork Sausage" to "Not really pork sausage" "Pork Sausage. (Just kidding, it's mostly sawdust")

So what is in an English sausage if it isn't meat? Giblets? Guts? If only.
It's sausage substitute. It's called Rusk.
Part wheat, part gluten, and a sprinking of Amonium Carbonate for that taste of your childhood.

Consider that for a moment.
The English sausage, (itself a substitute for meat) is mostly filled with a substitute for sausage.

And here's the kicker. The sausage is Englands pride. It's the banger in the mash. It's what makes a full english, full. And they can't even get that right.
You pathetic bastards.
I mean I've eaten some bad hot dogs in my time, but I can tell you, more than one in three bites had meat in it.

England, your food makes me sad.

Limey Bumsniffers

"When I was at Eton, homosexuality was not only common, it was a general rule" - Lionel Fielden, The Natural Bent, (1960), pages 28-29.

For those of you who don't know or care, Eton is the finest school in Britain. It's where they find their Dick Cheney's and their Colon Powells. So to speak.

England is all the rage

There was this guy. A.A.Gill - I like his name. It doubles as a support group for alcoholics - he was a restaurant critic but he also found time to observe the British. He once wrote that contrary to popular opinion, the default setting for English people is anger.

There's a misconseption out there that Brits are congenial, polite. A little stuffy even. There is an imagined undercurrent of self loathing and self deprecation that makes us think them funny at their own expense. But the truth is, it's false advertising.

England is a nation of Post Menstrual Tension. A nameless, faceless, directionless pissed offness, perpetual and uneneding in all directions simultaneously.

They're just bubbling away all the time. I stood on the tube this morning and the man next to me opened his paper right onto me. He wasn't being rude, he was angry at something and I just happened to be there, standing too close for his "rules of standing near people". As I'm writing this now, the lady next to me is sighing up a monsoon of huffing, presumably because I'm typing too loudly.

This is a nation of horn honkers and fist shakers. Of no-merging lanes. A nation of obscene finger gestures and muttered asides. Of eye rolling and tsk-tsking. This is a country of cranky shopkeepers and on-the-edge bus drivers. Of hostile doctors and furious pedestrians. An asylum for the criminally peeved. A nation of baby pram rammers and supermarket trolley colliders. Of pusher-pasters and "do you mind-ers". Of raised voices and wide eyes. Of snarls and snides and gripes and grumbles. Of newspapers angrily folded. A middleaged nation of old farts. A place built on a vesuvius of uncontrollable rage boiling under the surface, ready to splat like overboiled milk onto the face of anyone, anywhere, anytime.

To control this, English people use the word "sorry" alot. It makes it worse. It removes the backbone. It says a lot about a country when the most commonly used word is an apology. It should greet visitors at Heathrow.

Welcome to London. Sorry.

The Truth

From the New England Journal of Medicine.

Jan 6,1988 Genetic discovery of Britishism in Infants; A Brit is made when a portion of sperm, while traveling out of the end of a penile tube, is contaminated with a streak of urine found dangling at the end of it.

This contamination, at the very core of the genetic material, affects every stage forward, from the impregnation of the egg, through into the womb and on into the birth. It is the single reason why British people can’t tan, why the women’s thighs are filled with wet newspapers and why the men suffer so large a percentage of microorchidism.

There you have it.
Science never lies.

Oh, here's a link to the micro orchid thing... http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=11662

Whoah now, English women.

At a certain age, English women become men. They just sort of give up. They seem to look in the mirror and think, “To hell with it, I’ll let the moustache grow”. They start wearing pants and parka-vests to camouflage any microscopic remains of femininity. And, from what I have observed, they start filing away at the gaps between their teeth, so as to highlight the frightening curve each one has. Honest to god, I’ve seen smiles in Britain that look like they based on Stonehenge.

English women don’t have the kind of sturdy, rugged genetic code that lends itself to the Au Natural look like say, Russians or Swedes do. So the result is god awful. I'm not saying they don't put make up on. They do. But it's that awful, powdery stuff the rest of the world use as vaginal talc. As if they weren't already white enough. It’s like putting lipstick on a flange. It kind of looks right but you’d not want to kiss it.

Of the men, you can say they’re ugly, but men everywhere are pretty bad. What the British male brings is more of the, “I don’t really need girls” flare. It’s that look that seems to imply that getting a girl is really rather a bit of a bother. Instead, they drink a lot of beer and hang out with similarly ugly friends eating things like pork scratchings and yelling at television screens. A National competition seems to be underway to see how close a man can come to looking like The Elephant Man without actually being The Elephant man; the result - Very.

There is a saying in Greece. Monster in Face, Monster in Soul and The English are baring this out. I'm not suggesting that your social ills all stem from your lack of good looks, but when the first thing you see in the morning is your haggard, ball bag of a face staring back in the mirror, it can't put you in a good mood.

.

UGLY in the UK

There are too many ugly people in England. Seriously man, this shit has got to stop. You have filled your quota. No more ugly people needed. Pull down the Ugly Wanted posters. The positions have been filled.

I saw a woman today who had so many chins it looked like she'd swallowed something too fast, and sucked herself midway into her neck. She sort of peered over her chin at me when I returned a library book too late.

“This should’ve been brung back Sat’dee” Brung. From a librarian. An English Librarian.

Outside the tube station I saw man whose face was grotesquely pinched and small, but whose head was big and round. And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd grown a moustache.

People in England are casually ugly. The typical ugly person in America is kind of too fat or too thin. And that’s it. They might have a weird bald patch, but generally speaking, their kind of okay. In London, you’ll see people in the street who not only look like they belong in a circus, but who make you wish you ran a circus so you could discuss a lucrative contract with them overseas. I’ve sat next to people on buses and made sure no exposed skin touched theirs for fear I might somehow contract warts from them.

It’s frightening. In America, we only allow really beautiful people on TV. Unless they're really funny, and even then, we have limits. In England, you can have your own TV show even if you have an extra set of teeth above the regular set. And that's TV.

On the street it's limitless. Just standing at a bus stop you'll see people who look like the wrong end of a conjoined twin, reanimated corpses, partially melted wax sculptures, faces that look one part human flesh / one part cake batter. I saw a woman with an eyebrow so thick it looked proud. Sometimes I wonder if people are aware of this.

So England, as part of Europe, you should be just as hot as Germany and France. But you are most certainly not. You might beat them in a soccer games, but at night they go home and are consoled by hot porn star wives and you celebrate with a genetic grab bag of inbred mongoloids.

Pick up your game.And I ain't talking about fooooot-ball.